


Go Forth, and Live

by OneSpacyLady



Category: Saiyuki (Anime & Manga)
Genre: (sort of--like... SORT OF it's possession related), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domesticity, Gat didn't die shut up everything's fine, M/M, Post-Canon, Self-Harm, Southern Passive Aggressiveness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24417268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneSpacyLady/pseuds/OneSpacyLady
Summary: [Post-Canon AU; Gat Didn't Die] After the events of Even a Worm, Hazel and Gat make their way back across the pond, and come to settle together in a small village.
Relationships: Gato/Hazel Grouse
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	1. Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor's Wife

**Author's Note:**

> I'm planning these to mostly be a series of barely connected vignettes covering Hazel and Gat's life together in this AU I made up to cope with my post-Even A Worm pain. Rated M and may rate higher depending on where future drabbles go.

Hazel looks out the window of the cottage, and thinks, with a not-insignificant amount of agitation, that Gat has no idea just how handsome he really is. And that’s what really makes it  _ worse _ , because Gat’s obliviousness to that fact, his obstinate,  _ nonsensical  _ refusal to acknowledge what his rippling muscles and chiseled jaw and strong hands and stoic but kind eyes that bored into your soul  _ did  _ to a person made him  _ that much more  _ inherently attractive.   
  
And Hazel supposes he did find that endearing, to an extent. Whenever he would head out into the yard to chop firewood, Hazel had rather come to enjoy settling up on the porch with a tall glass of cold lemonade and, allegedly, working on his sermons.   
  
Allegedly.  
  
But it was the gawkers who got to him. Even in so small a town, even when their little cottage stood on the relative outskirts, it seemed there was always someone walking by who was taking just a  _ bit  _ too long to stroll past their yard and continue on their merry way. Hazel knew all of them, that was the thing--as the town priest, he knew  _ everyone  _ in the village. Including folks who had  _ absolutely no business  _ staring at Gat like dying fish choking on air, like the pious old women on their way to the teashop who were always first in line for Communion, or the woman two houses down whose union with her husband in _holy matrimony_ Hazel had officiated  _ just that summer.  
  
_ Or, as it happens, the gaggle of blushing young damsels on their way home from the schoolhouse, right at this very moment.  
  
And Hazel decides that, as the town priest, it is his religious  _ calling  _ to intervene--to protect these poor wandering souls from the wickedness of sin and their own lustful thoughts. He opens the window, and the girls leap back nearly half a foot, startled.   
  
“Oh  _ Gat _ !” he calls out, sweet as sugar. “Why don’tcha bury that hatchet for a spell and come on inside? I’m fixin’ to rustle us up some supper!”   
  
Gat doesn’t need to eat and Hazel is a terrible cook, but Gat only glances over his shoulder a moment, before burying his axe in the stump with one more hefty overhead swing and a grunt that nearly stops Hazel’s heart. He bends to gather a few pieces of wood for the stove, giving him a fleeting view of broad back and toned backside through his clothes, and Lord have mercy, that  _ definitely  _ almost stops Hazel’s heart. When he rises, he acknowledges the women on the path with a short, but polite nod, and continues on back into the house. Hazel watches him with a bright smile, and acknowledges their audience only when the door has shut.   
  
“I suppose I’ll be seein’ you ladies at Sunday service! Y'all get home safe, now!”   
  
As he shuts the window, a bit more forcefully than necessary, the thought comes to him.   
  
_ Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife _ . The perfect subject for this weekend’s sermon. 


	2. But Alas, I Was No Swimmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was used to only the sounds of nature for company, but with time, Hazel’s honey-smooth crooning had become almost as much a part of the scenery to him as the rustle of leaves in the breeze or the chirping of sparrows overhead.

Hazel likes to sing.   
  
It’s something Gat noticed about him early on in their travels. Always humming or whistling to himself as they made their way down the road, disjointed lyrics occasionally finding their way through--an _O Sister Phoebe, how merry was she_ , or a _False Sir John a-wooin’ came_ . Companionable silence was something Hazel could never abide; his voice rang out as if to assert its dominance over the quiet.  
  
Gat never minded it. He was used to only the sounds of nature for company, but with time, Hazel’s honey-smooth crooning had become almost as much a part of the scenery to him as the rustle of leaves in the breeze or the chirping of sparrows overhead.   
  
He wasn’t surprised when one of Hazel’s first acts of business upon taking over from the town’s aged parish priest was whipping the chapel’s tiny little choir into something a bit more serviceable. Gat lingers around outside the church on Sundays and listens to them. They sing well, but Hazel’s voice always rings out to him over the crowd, refusing to be smothered down by other, less _talented_ singers.   
  
Gat recognizes most of the hymns now, because they’re all Hazel’s favorites--another thing about the church and its functioning that he’s made over in his image. But they aren’t the songs Hazel likes _best_ . They aren’t the songs he sings when they’re at home, or on a walk through the woods together. Gat finds he likes those songs best too, the slower ones that draw out Hazel’s drawl, the ones where he can’t help but smile through the lyrics. Gat recognizes most of these songs now too, like the one about the coal miner’s lover who drowned in the river, or the one about the ill-intentioned suitor who plots to murder his fiance and make off with her family’s wealth.   
  
… They’re all surprisingly morbid songs, for how cheerily Hazel sings them.   
  
They’re sitting by the river on the far side of town. It’s a place they find themselves settling up often these days, on their walks, surrounded by a shady canopy of trees. Gat’s head rests in Hazel’s lap, pale fingers stroking idly through his locs as he reads. His eyes close, and he takes in the bubbling of the brook and the summer cicadas around them, and he thinks that even if he doesn’t need to sleep--this may be an acceptable time to do so.   
  
But the scenery isn’t yet quite complete.   
  
His eyes open, and Hazel seems to feel his gaze through the leatherbound book in his hands. He lowers it so that he can see Gat’s face, eyebrow raised.   
  
“Somethin’ wrong?”  
  
One hand lifts idly, brushing against the side of Hazel’s face. Hazel leans into the gesture, confusion softening into mild contentment, though there’s still a question in his eyes.   
  
“... Would you sing something?”  
  
He seems taken aback by the request, but then, Gat’s never asked him before. He makes a thoughtful sound as his fingers trace Gat’s jawline, and then the book is raised, obscuring his face from view. Gat lowers his arm to fold over his stomach again, and lets his eyes close just as Hazel sings the first few notes. Softer than he normally does. A performance for Gat alone.   
  
“Oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’, oh my _daaarlin’_ Clementine...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever notice how grim that song is??? Good lord.


	3. Yeah I Don't Have A Witty Title, Hazel Blindfolds Gat For Sexy Purposes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Now don’t you peek,” he says, fingers tracing along the side of his neck. “And don’t you speak unless I tell you to, y’hear?”
> 
> Gat hesitates a beat, as though momentarily considering whether the y’hear was rhetorical or an invitation to reply. He nods finally, answering with a calm and steady “Alright.”

He settles the bandana low over Gat’s eyes, taking the time to make sure it’s properly secured--that there’s no gaps that he could, theoretically, see through. Of course, it’s a needless gesture. If he tells Gat not to look, he won’t look, regardless of whether Hazel takes additional steps to prevent him from doing so. The bandana is all part of the fun though, and as he settles back on Gat’s lap, he admits to himself with a smug smile that it’s quite a fine look on him.  
  
“Now don’t you peek,” he says, fingers tracing along the side of his neck. “And don’t you  _ speak  _ unless I tell you to, y’hear?”  
  
Gat hesitates a beat, as though momentarily considering whether the  _ y’hear  _ was rhetorical or an invitation to reply. He nods finally, answering with a calm and steady “Alright.” And it’s a little frustrating, just how  _ calm  _ and  _ steady  _ he is--like Hazel’s just asking him to fix the stove or pick up something at the grocer’s. But he can’t be too surprised. Gat is patient and Gat is controlled, and Gat is, above all, accustomed to Hazel’s own quirks and predilections. It will take more than this to phase him.  
  
He is, at least, rewarded with the barest shiver, a slightly sharper exhale through his nose, when he leans down to whisper further commands in Gat’s ear. “Hands on the armrests,” he tells him, and he feels the muscles in Gat’s arms shift as he digs into the worn leather with his fingers, as if rooting them to that spot. “An’ no touchin’  _ me  _ ‘til I say you can.”  
  
Gat starts to open his mouth, but remembers that Hazel had asked no questions, and settles for a nod instead. The sight makes Hazel smile, and he presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.  
  
“Now then…” he sits back to survey his work, one hand smoothing down Gat’s still-clothed chest. “Where  _ should  _ I begin?”   
  
Hazel hadn’t expected this to be quite  _ so  _ entertaining. He  _ liked  _ when Gat looked at him, in no small measure because Hazel simply enjoyed the act of being looked at. But without sight to fall back on, Gat shows an awareness of him that’s no less intoxicating. The way his ears seem to perk and his breath seems to still when Hazel speaks or when he moves. The slight tension he feels in Gat’s jaw as he lifts his chin, and the way it drains out of him at once the moment Hazel kisses him. Hyper-aware and hyperfocused, the way he is in battle, always, always watching Hazel’s back.   
  
“See, I’d been thinkin’ about it.” His hand molds itself over the heat-less bulge straining against the front of Gat’s jeans. Gat tenses, but to his credit, doesn’t arch up into his touch. “What I could do with ya. And y’know, I’m still findin’ it mighty hard to choose. At first, I figured I might get down on the floor and let y’have my mouth, but now that I’m here, I think I’m gettin’ mighty fond of this view.” His hand slides back up, grazing along Gat’s throat. “Suppose I could ride ya.” Hazel feels him swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. That’s almost enough to make up his mind for him, and yet…  
  
No, he decides--there’ll be plenty of time for that later. Good as he knows it will feel, much as he already  _ wants  _ it, he’s enjoying this, riding the high of this control.   
  
Unzipping Gat’s pants, his hand reaches in, dipping below the waistband of his underwear and circling around the length of his cock with no further ceremony. For as composed as Gat is, that gets a reaction--it  _ always  _ gets a reaction. Lacking the warmth of a living human form, his body runs cool, even down here. It startled Hazel a bit the first time, yet he’s grown accustomed to it now, even finds himself anticipating it, that sharp hiss of pleasure that even Gat simply can’t restrain as he wraps his warm hand around cold, stiff flesh.  
  
“I think we’re just gonna start with this.” Hazel strokes him, biting his lip as he feels it twitch in his hand. “And y’know, I  _ hope  _ this one goes without sayin’? But you’d best not come until I say you can come. That clear?”  
  
Gat shudders, and Hazel hears the creak of old leather as strong hands tighten on the armrests. “Yes.”   
  
He rewards that answer with another kiss, and Gat does lean into this one, chases his mouth an inch or two with his own as Hazel pulls away, before settling back in the chair. “Good,” Hazel says with a grin that Gat can’t see, but is there plain as day in the sound of his voice. His hand sets a slow rhythm, enough to stimulate but not enough to push him too far, too quickly, as his head ducks to nestle cozily under Gat’s chin. Gat’s arms twitch, and Hazel smiles--knowing it’s because he wants to embrace him. Still, he holds himself back.   
  
“You’re always so  _ good  _ to me, Gat,” he sighs. “Always lookin’ out for me.” He pauses a beat, then he laughs, tracing his free hand along the bandana. “Well--guess y’ain’t doin’ much  _ lookin’  _ right now, are ya?”  
  
“I can--still watch you like this.” His voice is strained. He’s already getting close. “I can see you just fine, Hazel, sight or no sight.”  
  
Hazel feels his face warm, and he’s immediately grateful for the blindfold.   
  
“... S’pose I  _ did  _ ask a question,” he says, with a tone of playful warning. “So I’ll let that one slide.”   
  
Things are quiet between them after that, save for the crackle of the fire, the rhythmic rustle of fabric, and their own heated breaths. Before Hazel realizes it, he’s rocking his hips against Gat’s thigh, eager for the friction, for a little relief of his own. Hazel thinks he could come like this, just stroking Gat off, drinking in those low, restrained noises of pleasure, and the feeling of  _ power  _ that this gives him--that Gat  _ hands him _ , willingly, again and again. And it’s when he realizes  _ he  _ can barely wait anymore that he finally asks, breathing the question into Gat’s ear.  
  
“Gat, do you want to come?”   
  
“-- _ Yes _ ,” he answers, barely a half-second after Hazel has finished speaking, an edge of desperation to his voice that shows just how near his limit he is. Hazel just laughs, and he shifts the position of his hand so he can stroke him just a little bit rougher, a little bit faster.  
  
“Alright,” he says. “Go ahead, now.”   
  
And he does, right on cue, as if he was holding himself back just for this precise second. Hazel feels the slick spill over his hand, hears the low, barely audible half-growl, half-groan that rises up in Gat’s throat. And all the while, Hazel strokes him through it, stroking his hair with his free hand as he does, whispering words of encouragement and praise. He ducks his head, and they kiss, and they kiss, and they kiss--the kind of kisses that blur together in a way where you don’t know where one stopped and the next one started, that continue long after the tremors in Gat’s body subside.   
  
Hazel strokes his oversensitive cock again, just a pump or two, smirking against Gat’s lips as he feels him tense and jerk beneath him, tastes the sudden hitch in his breath.  
  
“Here now,” he says, reaching back to untie the bandana. “Let’s get this off’a ya.”   
  
Gat’s eyes open as he removes the cloth, pupils blown wide from arousal and the dark shrinking as he blinks heavily, adjusting to the light. They close again a moment later, when Hazel leans in to press a long, lingering kiss to his forehead.  
  
“Hey,” he says. “You can touch me now, if you want.”  
  
Almost immediately, Gat’s arms are encircling him, holding him close in that way that Hazel likes best. Tight, just this side of  _ too  _ tight, though Hazel can tell as he settles into the embrace that Gat’s ever-conscious of how much of his strength he uses. How much he holds back even now, for his sake. Even so, the closeness of the embrace and the press of their bodies reminds Hazel of his own need, his clothed erection rubbing lightly against Gat’s stomach and drawing out a gasp.  
  
Gat pulls back slightly, following his gaze down.  
  
“Should I--”  
  
“--By all means,” Hazel says, a bit breathlessly. “But--just a second.”   
  
Without a word, Hazel unfolds the bandana, ducking his head as he wraps it around his eyes. It’s a little harder when he’s just doing it on himself, but he gets it in place eventually, tying it off at the back of his head. He sits up properly so Gat can see, with a confident smile and a flip of his hair--like he’s modeling some high-end fashion accessory.  
  
“Fair’s fair, right?” He grins, arms slinging around Gat’s shoulders. “Now are you gonna take me to bed, or am I gonna hafta order ya?”   
  
Gat is silent at first. And then he laughs, and it’s like a distant ripple of thunder on a spring evening. He pushes himself up carefully, and Hazel tightens his grip around his neck as Gat lifts him with strong arms and the gentlest hands.  
  
“Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hazel the Dommy Power Bottom and Service Top Gat is my jelly and jam and this is pure self-indulgence. Also it only took me like two chapters to properly lewd this party up.


	4. And Having Done All, To Stand [1/2]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gat dips the cloth into the bucket of water. Hazel sits on the bed, curled in on himself--silent.
> 
> “You should keep them unfurled when you’re inside.” He starts with the left wing, the one that was most damaged in the fall. Gat cleans it carefully, avoiding needless pressure against the brittle bones and cartilage underneath the scales. “They’ll need to stretch out to heal properly.” 
> 
> Hazel doesn’t say anything, but that’s not a surprise to Gat.
> 
> Hazel has barely spoken in two months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Minekura left it on the table as to whether or not he has his memories or not, but if you go with the assumption he does, which I'm doing for this story--that implies he doesn't have that safeguard for his psyche against Varahal anymore. So... y'know! Gat's alive in this AU but Hazel still probably had a real shitty time of things.
> 
> Feel like a very minor Eating Disorder CW is probably warranted for just this chapter specifically? So like, yanno, be wary if that's a thing you don't want to engage in.

Gat dips the cloth into the bucket of water. Hazel sits on the bed, curled in on himself--silent.  
  
“You should keep them unfurled when you’re inside.” He starts with the left wing, the one that was most damaged in the fall. Gat cleans it carefully, avoiding needless pressure against the brittle bones and cartilage underneath the scales. “They’ll need to stretch out to heal properly.”   
  
Hazel doesn’t say anything, but that’s not a surprise to Gat.  
  
Hazel has barely spoken in two months.  
  
He rarely sleeps. He seldom eats. His robes hang off him these days. Some days he’s barely strong enough to walk. Gat isn’t sure if he’s trying to _starve_ the creature out, or if he’s trying to render its vessel so weak that taking over it ceases to be worth its time.   
  
Hazel curls in on himself as Gat works, biting back the occasional flinch. Even now, he’s too proud to show how much it must hurt. And it must, Gat thinks, given the state they were in. One of his wings had grown infected, only a day or so into their journey back west. He’d spent nearly two weeks laid up in bed, delirious with fever. Gat hadn’t been sure he would survive.   
  
He’s taken out of his thoughts by a sound that he first mistakes as a whimper of pain. When he pauses, looking up--he realizes that Hazel was speaking his name.  
  
“Gat,” Hazel whispers, voice rough from lack of use, muffled as he rests his face against bony knees. “... He’s still inside me.”   
  
Gat lowers his gaze to the mangled wing, and resumes his work with the rag. “I know.”  
  
“I can hear him whisper to me sometimes. Whenever I fall asleep… I-I don’t know if my body’s gonna be my own when I wake up. Gat, I can’t--” even his wings are trembling under Gat's touch. “What if I lose control again? What if I can’t stop it? What if I--” _hurt you_ , he can’t seem to bring himself to say.   
  
“... You’ve driven him back before. You can do it again--”   
  
“-- _You don’t know that_ .”   
  
Gat doesn’t object. He knows it won’t matter if he does. He believes in Hazel--he’s _always_ believed in Hazel, but to say it won’t account for much, won’t erase that self-doubt. That’s a fight that’s been going on in Hazel’s own mind for weeks, one that Gat can’t win for him. Instead, he places the rag back in the bucket, and rests his hand against Hazel’s bare back, fingers tracing along the joint of his right wing--and tells him the one thing he does know for certain.  
  
“I’m not leaving you.”   
  
Hazel’s shoulders tremble, and the sound he makes sound as much to Gat like a low, bitter laugh as it does a sob.


	5. And Having Done All, To Stand [2/2]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he speaks, he puts every ounce of authority into his hoarse, trembling voice that he possibly can.
> 
> “You’re a guest in this body,” he says. “D’you understand me, you godless reprobate? I don’t know how to get you outta me yet, but I will. And until then, I’m not about to let you do what you please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Hey There Demon, It’s Me, Ya Boi.” 
> 
> (Also hand-centered bloodiness in this chapter, just as a heads up.)

It is three weeks later, when Hazel walks into the tiny, dingy little bathroom of the tiny, dingy little inn.   
  
Gat had left that morning, to see about securing them passage back across the Atlantic. He had spoken of his plans a little. Though Gat was a man of few words, he did speak more these days, as if trying to fill the silence he knew Hazel had always disliked. He’d told him there was a cargo ship leaving two days from now that was in need of a few more deckhands--that he had managed to barter for one ticket that would at least cover Hazel.   
  
Hazel had stared at the door when he left, for so long the sunlight had shifted when he finally gazed back at the window. That was when he stood, on shaky legs, and made his way to the sink.   
  
When he looks at his reflection, at first he thinks it’s the creature he’s seeing, and not himself. The man in the mirror looks like a stranger--gaunt and ghostly pale, once-lustrous white hair dull and thin, skin stretched tight over his bones, wings stretched out behind him like an otherworldly shadow. It takes a few seconds, blinking in the flickering light of the bathroom, to realize that this is just…  _ him _ , right now. That this is what his body has been reduced to over the past several months.   
  
He almost doesn’t believe it. That he could still...  _ possibly  _ be alive after all of this, after traveling so far in such a state.   
  
But there are things he remembers, throughout the hazy blur of the past few months. A cool compress against his forehead, flickers of pain as careful hands tended to his wounds, gazing out at the desert road from against a sun-warmed back on the days when his legs wouldn’t cooperate--and Hazel knows that if he is alive, it had certainly not been by his  _ own  _ force of will. And he knows, he  _ knows _ , it cannot be like this any longer.   
  
He’d told Gat that he would bear the burden of his life. Yet here was Gat, bearing the burden for  _ both  _ of them.   
  
He grips the edge of the sink, and lets out a shuddering breath.   
  
When he speaks, he puts every ounce of authority into his hoarse, trembling voice that he possibly can.  
  
“You’re a guest in this body,” he says. “D’you understand me, you godless reprobate? I don’t know how to get you outta me  _ yet _ , but I will. And until then, I’m not about to let you do what you please.”  
  
The words hang in the air with decisive finality. There’s no answer, none of the taunting whispers he hears as he sleeps.  
  
He takes a step back, and he’s almost foolish enough to think that will be that.   
  
Then, before Hazel can even fully process that he’s moving, his arm rears back, and his fist slams into the mirror.   
  
Pain jolts up his arm like an electric shock, and he sags, gripping the edge of the sink for stability. His eyes are wide, his mouth hung open in a voiceless shout of pain. There’s only a small, hairline crack in the mirror at first, but at the next punch the glass splinters. He feels moisture against his knuckles. His fist strikes again, and and again, and again, streaking the mirror with red that trickles down and starts to  _ drip, drip, drip  _ down into the sink. His head is buzzing, his blood pounding in his ears, and it sounds, Hazel thinks, not unlike a howl of rage.  
  
He looks up again, sees  _ himself _ , sees his own face staring back. It’s his eyes, it’s his mouth gasping for air, it’s the rise and fall of his own chest,  _ his  _ blood smeared across the glass. He’s still standing, somehow. Despite the weakness in his legs, despite the exhaustion that drapes over his mind like a fog, despite  _ everything  _ that’s happened.  
  
He laughs, a broken but forceful sound.   
  
“That all?” His fist drives in again, but there’s no flash of pain--only a numbness that creeps up through his shoulder. He grits his teeth through it, but he’s still standing, still on his feet. “You can rail and rave as much as you want in there. You can try an’ tear us  _ both  _ apart if it’ll make you  _ feel  _ better. But you  _ ain’t  _ gonna kill me.  You ain’t gonna hurt  _ anyone  _ again.”   
  
His arm shoots forward again, and his knees almost buckle, his arm moving to brace himself against the edge of the sink. He closes his eyes, and chokes back the bitter bile rising in his throat. His teeth clench so hard they feel like they might crack.   
  
“-- _ Put on the whole armour of God, and ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. _ ” His body jerks forward with the force of the next blow. Tears of pain gather at the corners of his eyes, but he blinks them back. “ _ For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities-- _ ”  **SLAM.** “-- _ against powers--”  _ **SLAM.** “-- _ against the rules of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places _ \--”  **SLAM.** “ _ Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all _ \--”  **SLAM.** Hazel grits his teeth. “-- _ to stand.” _   
  
The next blow does it. His legs give out and he slumps, over the sink and then down onto the floor. The impulse is gone, the pull on his arm released, and Hazel thinks this is what the creature had wanted. To remind him who was in control, whose powers he had been using, all this time. That he didn’t have the comfortable salve of suppressed memories to protect him anymore.   
  
But Hazel glances up at the corner, vision swimming, he knows that when he’s able to pull himself up the floor, it will still be his own face he sees, his blood staining the white porcelain of the sink. He is alive.   
  
The thought is a comfort as his vision blurs.  
  
***  
  
Gat finds him there an hour later, curled in on himself on the floor. Almost cocooned by his wings, with his bloodied hand clutched to his chest. Hazel hears the creak of the door, and he tries, he  _ tries  _ to move, but he can’t bring himself to sit up properly. Knows it wouldn’t matter much if he did, between the splintered mirror and the puddle of blood that’s formed in the sink and on the floor.   
  
He can’t see Gat’s face.   
  
He’s thankful for that.  
  
Wordlessly, Gat goes to get the bandages from their pack. He sets them down on the sink, on one of the edges that hasn’t been stained with blood. Hazel hears running water, then the wringing of a cloth. Gat kneels beside him, maneuvering him to sit, and gently takes his wrist.   
  
Hazel catches a glimpse of Gat’s face. His bodyguard may not need sleep, but he does look--tired.   
  
“... Hazel--”  
  
“--I didn’t do it to myself.” He doesn’t know why he feels the need to ensure Gat knows that, or why the thought of Gat thinking he did is more painful than the shame of admitting that he lost control. He smiles mirthlessly, his head tilting to rest in the crook of Gat’s neck. “I’m sorry… looks like I made a right mess of this place, didn’t I?”  
  
Gat hesitates, then carefully, very carefully, begins examining the damage done to Hazel’s knuckles. “It’s okay.”   
  
That’s all they say for a while. Gat picks the shards of glass from his skin and wipes away the drying blood on his skin. It hurts, but Hazel doesn’t mind, doesn’t even flinch. The pain reminds him he’s still here, that this body is still his own.  
  
“I brought food,” Gat says. “You  _ need  _ to eat, Hazel. You can’t--”  
  
“--I know.” Gat’s hands pause. “And I don’t suppose you could find us some fresh water, could ya? I’m... feelin’ mighty parched.”   
  
Gat is silent for a beat, before reaching up for the bandages.   
  
“Alright.”  
  
Hazel closes his eyes, hand relaxed as he allows Gat to work.   
  
Gat has carried him across continents. Gat has shouldered the weight of his burdens, when he was not strong enough to shoulder them himself. Gat has kept him alive, all this time, in defiance of Hazel’s own will.   
  
But this is  _ his  _ body.   
  
These are his demons, and he will keep them at bay.   
  
He leans back against Gat’s chest and lets out a breath. For the first time in months, his heart is quiet.  
  
When the creature comes back, Hazel will be ready for it. 


	6. But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, and loved the sorrows of your changing face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hazel is forty now. Over fifteen years older now than Gat had been on the day he died. And though change has come gradually, year by year by year, there has been change--ever starker given the fact that Gat does not think he himself has the ability to age any longer. Hazel has always cherished his good looks, always put an inordinate amount of work into keeping his hair neat and well-trimmed and his skin blemish-free, but that ironclad control over his appearance can only last so long against the passing of time. And it’s not simply the fact of his beauty, but that lack of control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed to write something that was slightly less of a bummer than the last two chapters so like here y'go I guess.

“Here, see?! Another one!”  
  
Gat steps up behind him, glancing past Hazel at his reflection. Hazel is pointing sharply at his scalp with clear alarm and a furrowed brow.   
  
“ _ Another _ one!” he repeats. “ _ Another  _ gray hair! I told ya I wasn’t making it up!” He sighs with a dramatic flair that is utterly, intrinsically Hazel, turning back to face the mirror. He bends his head, carefully inspecting his hair for any additional traitors to his youthful image. “I’m gonna hafta start colorin’ it, I reckon. On my  _ own _ , that is. That’ll be it for goin’ to the salon--Ol’ Mrs. Merryweather’s daughter took over last spring, and that girl  _ gossips  _ like you just wouldn’t  _ believe _ .” He clicks his tongue in annoyance. “Though she probably wouldn’t dare. I already know all  _ her  _ dirt from confessional, anyways.”   
  
“... Hazel,” Gat begins patiently. “Your hair has  _ always  _ been--”  
  
“--No, no,  _ no _ , this is a  _ different shade! _ ” Hazel grasps a portion of his bangs to demonstrate, moving it up and down. “Y’see? They catch the light all different.  _ This  _ is normal grey, and  _ this--THIS! _ Is  _ old man grey! _ ” He huffs, waving Gat off before abandoning his hair in favor of resuming his increasingly elaborate skin care regimen. “Oh never  _ mind _ . I don’t expect you to understand.”  
  
He thinks he might. Hazel is forty now. Over fifteen years older now than Gat had been on the day he died. And though change has come gradually, year by year by year, there  _ has  _ been change--ever starker given the fact that Gat does not think he himself has the ability to age any longer. Hazel has always cherished his good looks, always put an inordinate amount of work into keeping his hair neat and well-trimmed and his skin blemish-free, but that ironclad control over his appearance can only last so long against the passing of time. And it’s not simply the fact of his beauty, but that lack of control.   
  
Hazel fusses over every grey hair, every wrinkle, every perceived imperfection or flaw, as though he will cease to be a respected cornerstone of the village community if his parishioners see that he is an ordinary human who ages as ordinary humans age. As though Gat will cease to love him if he is not beautiful.   
  
His hand rests against Hazel’s back. Hazel sighs, because they’ve been through this before, because he knows what Gat is trying to do. “I need to finish this,” he says, dabbing some kind of cream on his cheeks. Still, he doesn’t object when Gat’s arm slips around his waist, as he pulls him back against his chest. That does get a small smile out of him, and when he finishes rubbing the concoction into his skin, he screws the cap back onto the jar and sets it aside. Hazel leans back against him, closing his eyes.  
  
“Not going to run off with someone younger and prettier now, are ya?” It’s framed like a joke, Hazel  _ laughs  _ like it’s a joke, but spoken in a way that implies he has probably thought about it before, probably understands that it’s a completely absurd notion--yet even after all this time, he still can’t fully shake it, this need to judge his own worth and value based on his place in the lives of others, always feeling the need to prove himself.   
  
Gat bows his head, pressing a kiss into Hazel’s hair. “What’s left of my life is yours. You know that.”  
  
Hazel’s smile softens. “And is that what you want?” His hand lifts, touching Gat’s cheek. His fingers smell of floral creams and artificial rainfall. “You still happy, livin’ here with me?”   
  
“Why wouldn’t I be?” His arm around his waist tightens. “This is where I belong.”  
  
Hazel’s cheeks flush with sudden heat, and he clears his throat in that way he does when he’s suddenly feeling sheepish. He sighs, turning from the mirror to face Gat properly. “Alright,” he says with a resigned smile. “Fine.  _ Fine _ . You got my attention. You gonna kiss me now, or do I gotta make it an order?”  
  
He doesn’t have to make it an order. 

***

Two hours later they’re in bed and pleasantly sated, curled up together as the late afternoon sun creeps in through the curtains. Hazel’s humming something soft and tuneless, his fingertips tracing idle patterns along Gat’s bare chest. Gat watches him, watches the way his relaxed, peaceful smile crinkles at the corners of his mouth and the corners of his eyes, and he’s so heartachingly  _ beautiful  _ like that, in a way that Hazel, even for all his vanity, never gives himself permission to notice.  
  
But that’s fine. Gat can appreciate it in his stead.   
  
“Y’know,” Hazel murmurs sleepily. “I think I woulda  _ liked  _ to see you grow old. Reckon you’d’ve been mighty handsome.”   
  
Gat can picture it if he tries. The weathered lines of his face, the steady graying of his dark hair. He can picture them growing old  _ together _ , here in this house, and it’s an appealing thought--that his body should follow Hazel’s through the passage of time, as he’s followed him everywhere else. Even if it can’t, he’s content to observe, to see what Hazel’s smile will look like in ten years, in twenty years, in thirty years.   
  
His lips press to Hazel’s forehead, and though his body does not demand sleep, it feels a waste of the moment, of the afternoon twilight and Hazel’s warmth at his side, not to let himself doze off with him, for a time.


	7. Carpentry and Contemplation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gat’s hands might have been built to make things, Hazel realizes.

Gat’s hands might have been built to _make_ things, Hazel realizes. Not even just to make things, but to build, to _fix_ things. His hands never looked any less at home when they held his guns, but to see them at work now--repairing a patch of their roof that had worn through, or carefully sharpening a knife in the kitchen, or helping Hazel with his _long_ list of renovations for the old chapel--it just feels _right_ , it feels _natural_.   
  
Carving, too. Gat is quite _good_ at carving things. It’s a skill of his that Hazel hadn’t had much occasion to witness, on the road. There was never time, with Hazel’s quest drawing him further east, and they were always limited in what they could carry with them. But he’s taken to it since they’ve settled. An idle pastime, now that they have the time and the freedom to indulge in idle pastimes. He’s always inspecting odd bits of wood on their walks together--fallen branches in the forest, or driftwood washed up by the creek--weighing it over in his hands, seeing possibility and purpose in what Hazel would have written off as useless scrap.  
  
( _Years later, when Hazel is lost in a bit of quiet nostalgia, he will think back on one of these moments. He’ll remember the thoughtful furrow of Gat’s brow, the way he turned the wood over in his hands, drafting a picture that Hazel can’t see. He’ll think “you know, I think it was--it was probably then. That was probably when I realized I was in love with him”. And that moment is so hard to pinpoint, because there are so many Hazel could point to, because Gat is himself so impossibly hard not to love, but there’s something about that memory in particular that will make his heart ache when he recalls it, and so he will decide, yes, yes, it was probably that._ )  
  
Most of his carving, he gets done when they’re out on the porch together, like tonight. They spend a lot of their evenings out here in the summer when the weather is agreeable, with fireflies dancing along the path into town and the sound of june bugs flittering through the air. Sometimes Hazel will put something on the record player and leave the living room window open so they can hear it, or sometimes he will practice with the old six-string he found in chapel storage. But there is always music, and there is always the sound of Gat’s whittling knife. A steady and rhythmic sound-- _thunk, shikhh, shikhh, shikhh, thunk, shikhh, shikhh, shikhhh--_ that’s a bit like music too, in its way.   
  
Eventually, Hazel tires of his strumming, and sets the guitar aside, flexing his fingers idly. It’s a smaller piece Gat’s carving, from what Hazel can see of it, and it’s had his full attention for most of the night. But he does glance up, just for a brief moment. “Finished for tonight?”  
  
“Think so,” Hazel says, taking his watered-down glass of sweet tea from where he’d rested it on the porch railing. The condensation soothes his sore fingers, still unaccustomed to regular play. He takes a drink as he gets to his feet, wandering over to where Gat is sitting. He peers over his shoulder, finally getting a good look at what he’s carving. It’s mostly finished, it seems, Gat’s knife simply working in further embellishments and decorative details.   
  
Hazel’s eyebrow raises. “A cross?”  
  
“I still need to find a chain for it.”  
  
“Well, now! All this time together, and I never would’ve taken you for a believer,” he teases, leaning against the back of his chair. “Why didn’t you mention it before? Do I hafta start badgering you to come to Mass now?”   
  
“It’s not for me.”  
  
“No?”   
  
Gat holds the cross up to examine it in the lamplight, checking the symmetry of his carving. “I found a piece of black walnut the other day that seemed right for it.” He resumes his work without another word, only glancing up again when he realizes that may not have been sufficient enough explanation. “I _did_ break your pendant.”  
  
Hazel blinks slowly.   
  
“... Ah.”  
  
Gat lowers his head, returning his attention to his work. He guides the blade of the knife with his thumb, smoothing out a curved groove, perfectly symmetrical to the one he’s already made on the other side. Hazel’s arms drape around Gat’s shoulders, and he leans down to watch. In time, the soft, rhythmic sounds of his knife against the wood lull his eyes to close. Focuses his attention on the shift of Gat’s muscles whenever he adjusts his grip, breathes in the scent of wood shavings and the oil Gat uses for his hair.  
  
(“ _No, no,” Hazel will think. “You know what? It was probably right then.”  
_  
_He’ll nestle into the covers, and Gat will shift beside him. The strongest, gentlest fingers Hazel has ever known will stroke through his hair, and lips will brush his forehead, and Hazel will laugh sleepily as he curls close against a broad chest--because for the way it still sets his heart alight, it could’ve been just as easily right now too._  
  
_“Hard to say,” he’ll decide, as he drifts off. “He makes it awfully hard to narrow it down.”)_


End file.
